


Take Care, Now

by shaniacbergara



Series: Coffee, Wine, and Textbooks-Verse [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Crowley is a workaholic and so am I, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, this is as close as i get to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: Sometimes university professors don't take care of themselves. Come talk to me over at toby-zachary-ziegler on tumblr
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Coffee, Wine, and Textbooks-Verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490870
Comments: 25
Kudos: 170





	1. Go To Bed

Crowley bent low over his desk, his face nearly touching the paper. The student, whoever it was-Crowley preferred to grade blindly, was making a good point, but Crowley could barely see the paper anymore. He’d nearly gone cross eyed and it seemed as though each blink was getting longer and longer. He shook his head, ruffled his hair, and redoubled his efforts. He heard a snore from the other room, Aziraphale must have been deeply asleep. Crowley rubbed at his cheeks, screwing them up and then back down again in an effort to maintain focus. Another snore. It wasn’t like his angel to go to bed so early, he paused, looked up from the paper. 

Night had fallen around him, and he wasn’t sure when that had happened, exactly. He’d gone up after dinner, kissing Aziraphale on the temple as Aziraphale settled down to read. Had he come in to say goodnight? Crowley couldn’t remember. He checked his watch, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Three in the morning wasn’t a good time for anyone to be awake, certainly not someone with a boyfriend keen on waking up at 5 am. At least that explained why he was having trouble seeing, the lone lamp he’d left on in the corner of the room wasn’t doing him any good. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair.

“Nothing for it now, I suppose.” He reasoned, whispering despite being quite sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to hear him in the next room. They shared an office in their little home, but Aziraphale rarely used it. He was more apt to keep Crowley company on occasion, but with essays this long and this important, Crowley had needed room to concentrate. He stuck a match and lit a candle. Coffee scented, his angel knew him so well. “I’ll just finish this one,” he whispered to himself, yawning. “Just this one, and I’ll go to bed.”

When Aziraphale woke the next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed as ever, he was cross to find himself alone in the plush and comfortable bed. He humphed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and putting on his slippers. He had an inkling of where, exactly, he’d find his husband to be. He padded down the hallway to find the door to their office slightly ajar. He pushed it open. 

There was Crowley, his face pressed into a student’s paper still clutched in his hand. His glasses were askew on his face, and his lips were twitching in sleep. Aziraphale, trying very hard not to be endeared at the sight of this tangle of limbs, narrowed his eyes.

“Anthony.” He stated, not taking care to keep his voice particularly sweet. Crowley sighed in his sleep nonetheless. “Anthony!” He repeated, a little louder this time. Crowley jolted awake, looking around wildly. He ran a hand through his dreadfully messy hair, messier than Aziraphale had ever seen it, and frantically righted his glasses. In his haste, he scattered the papers across his desk, and he smoothed them, sheepishly.

“Zira!” He exclaimed, eyes wide. Aziraphale watched the proceedings, unimpressed, his arms crossed across his chest. “Morning, angel.” 

“Don’t you ‘morning angel’ me.” Aziraphale replied, glaring at Crowley. “You didn’t come to bed last night.” He pointed out.

“No I...I suppose I didn’t.” Crowley scratched the back of his head, looking abashed. “Sorry, Zira.”

“You’re no use to your students if you haven’t had any sleep.” Aziraphale pointed out.

“I’ve been told I’m 90% funnier without a good night’s rest.” Crowley countered, but seeing another withering look from his fiance he held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

“You’ve got to stop this, Anthony.” Aziraphale insisted, crossing over to the desk and running a hand through Crowley’s messy red hair. This wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had found Crowley asleep at his grading. He read every essay, gave feedback on every punctuation mark, and graded so carefully. It took him time, and he imposed needless deadlines on himself, wanting to get work back to his students in a timely fashion. This often resulted in Crowley running himself ragged while trying to get papers graded. Aziraphale, on the other hand, graded quickly and brutally. 

“I’ve got to get these papers back, Zira. It’ll be done soon.” He assured him, looking up at Aziraphale. The angle cast the bags under Crowley’s eyes into sharp relief. Aziraphale ran his thumb along one, underneath Crowley’s glasses. Crowley’s eyes fluttered delicately. 

“The best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter which says we are for each other.” Aziraphale recited, losing track of his argument for the quickest of seconds.

“You can quote Williams or you can lecture me, but you can’t do both.” Crowley insisted.

“Cummings, my love.” Aziraphale corrected.

“If you insist.” Crowley snarked, but cut himself off at a warning tug on his locks from his fiance.

“You need to sleep, Anthony.” Aziraphale reminded him, thoroughly back on track. Crowley searched Aziraphale’s face, lined with concern and affection, sighed deeply, and nodded. 

“Alright, angel, alright.” He conceded, and Aziraphale, for now, looked satisfied.

“Come on, go get into bed, I’ll make you a coffee.” Aziraphale kissed him on his forehead, and turned to pad his way down to the kitchen.

Crowley did indeed get comfortable, taking care to rest his head on their hard headboard, to ensure he wouldn’t fall asleep. Aziraphale returned to the bedroom in a short moment, and did Crowley the courtesy of talking about anything besides grading and coursework. Instead, he let Crowley go on and on about the plants he was considering for the garden, whether the neighbors would mind if he yelled at them, what kind of vegetables Aziraphale might like for him to grow, and so on. By the time the coffee was finished, Crowley did look much more like himself.

Crowley was able to teach his morning class with his usual gusto. He gestured wildly as he discussed the Reign of Terror, insisting that had he been there, things would have gone far differently. He kept his students laughing, proving his theory about how funny he was off a night of no sleep, and answered his students questions enthusiastically. 

“Just one question for you lot before you run out of here.” He said, looking out at them. “Am I funnier today than normal? Show of hands if I am.” Many hands in the air. He put his hands on his hips, pleased beyond compare. 

“Thank you, I thought as much.” 

Crowley hurried back to his office that day, wanting to get some work done, grade a few papers, during his break. He closed his office door, an oddity in his personal history, watered his plants, and sat behind his desk, ignoring the ache in his neck as he got down to business. He became so absorbed, he didn’t even notice the knock at his door around noon. His alarm went off when it was nearly 2, alerting him it was time for class, and he stood up, his back cracking, and hurried away, satisfied with the work he’d accomplished.   
He met up with Aziraphale at the end of the day, kissing him on the mouth when he saw him leaving his office after Crowley’s last class finished. 

“Ready to go, angel?” Aziraphale reached up on tip-toe to kiss him back, but frowned as he returned to his usual height. “Something wrong?” Crowley asked, running a finger along the crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows. Aziraphale shook his head, his expression melting into a grin.

That night, Crowley listened to Aziraphale practice his Hebrew in bed before they fell asleep. And in all honesty, if keeping Aziraphale happy meant he got to hear his angel read Hebrew, he really didn’t mind in the slightest.

Crowley missed lunch two more times before Aziraphale lost his temper. 

Usually, Aziraphale respected the boundary of a closed door. Sure, when he was attempting to woo Crowley he’d take him by surprise, but always in a fun, light hearted type of way. This was something else entirely. So, that Thursday, when he again received no response to his knock, he stormed inside anyway. Crowley, as he knew he would be, was grading papers at his desk, looking utterly lost to the world. He looked up when Aziraphale entered.

“Ah! Zira!” He smiled at him, toothily. “I’m nearly finished!” Aziraphale sighed.

“Do you realize, my dear boy, that I have not had lunch with you in several days.” He jumped straight in, and Crowley winced. 

“I-no Zira I hadn’t noticed.” He admitted, and it was true. 

“How am I supposed to enjoy the gyros around the corner without you speaking Greek to the young man in there?” Aziraphale demanded, approaching Crowley’s desk. Crowley put the paper he was working on down, and moved around his desk to where Aziraphale stood. His hands found Aziraphale’s lapels, and he fiddled with them, eyes on his own hands.

“I’m sorry, Zira.” He said, honestly. “I really didn’t notice, I just got, you know, wrapped up.” Aziraphale nodded, eyes softening slightly around the corners.

“You’re running yourself ragged, my dear.” He pointed out, cupping Crowley’s chin and tilting it so Crowley was looking at him properly. “I don;t like to see you like this.” Crowley took the opportunity to kiss him. Who could blame him, in all honesty. 

“I know.” He said, his skin prickling with remorse. “I know, angel.”

“Then please, my love, come and get lunch with me. I’ve been longing to hear you speak Italian.”

“I thought you wanted gyros.” 

“I’m changeable, what can I say?”

Aziraphale led Crowley out of his office by the hand, watching with keen joy as Crowley relaxed into his meal. They left hand in hand, smiling giddily to one another.  
If the next batch of papers were returned to Crowley’s students just a tiny bit later than usual, Crowley made up for it with rosy cheeks and slightly less dramatic bags beneath his eyes, and he found that not one of them complained.


	2. No Big Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets stressed.

Aziraphale was different. Different than anyone Crowley had ever known. Aziraphale had lived in his comfortable way for quite some time, and he folded Crowley into his neat little life without too much fuss. Crowley was beginning to think that Aziraphale was unflappable. This beacon of luxury? Who cancelled class the minute he started to feel under the weather? Who had the same morning routine that allowed him to luxuriate over his tea in peace? What could possibly worry Aziraphale?

Well, as it turned out, wedding planning could worry Aziraphale. 

He began it fairly early, not waiting long after the proposals had been made. He kept a journal, chock full of ideas and things to do and reminders. Crowley wasn’t nearly so concerned, and in all honesty would have married Aziraphale barefoot in a river if that’s what it took. But he wanted his angel to be happy, so he let him carry on.   
Aziraphale would ask his opinions, sometimes. 

“What do you think of these flowers, dear boy?” He’d ask, bumping his hip against Crowley’s affectionately. 

“Fine, angel, they’re fine.” Crowley would say, but he couldn’t have been less concerned. They were flowers, and they were lovely. “I could grow those, if you like.” But then Aziraphale would look at him like he had 3 heads, so Crowley would drop it.

“What do you think of these, for invitations?” He would ask, passing a clipping from a magazine to Crowley as they sat on the couch, and Crowley would lift his head from Aziraphale’s lap, examine the clipping, then return it. 

“Nice.” He’d reply, settling back in. “Maybe we could get some nice paper from the craft store.” He’d say, and Aziraphale would scoff at him again. 

Aziraphale kept it up for a while, he figured Crowley would want to be involved with the planning stage. He always thought it’d be so lovely to plan a wedding. He did, after all, have impeccable taste, and he was always inclined towards the finer things in life. He never thought it’d be his wedding, however, and this he found to be considerably more stressful. 

Eventually, Aziraphale realized that Crowley was hardly interested in wedding planning, which seemed odd to him, considering he was plenty keen on a proposal. Slowly but surely, Aziraphale stopped asking him for his perspective on various wedding elements. 

Crowley didn’t really notice. The notebook never went away, and Aziraphale spent quite a bit of time scribbling away in it, but otherwise things remained much the same.   
Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair, pouring over his notebook again. Crowley was on the couch attempting not to feel too terribly disappointed that nobody was playing with his hair. He sprawled along the length of it instead, a long leg hoised over the back of the couch, the other stretched out, stocking foot resting on the arm rest. His head propped on pillows, not nearly so satisfying as being in a lap, but it’d do for the time being. His hands holding a book, borrowed from Aziraphale, though was that really still true at this point, on his chest. He sighed, letting out a little noise from deep in his chest. He grumbled a bit more as he shifted, getting more comfortable. He didn’t even hear the snap of the notebook closing. He carried on with his reading until Aziraphale interrupted him.

“Dearest, is it possible for you to perhaps not be quite so noisy.” Crowley’s eyes paused on the page, and all at once he was upright. It never really made sense to Aziraphale, how Crowley moved, it was as if he skipped a frame sometimes, or had fewer joints than the average human. 

“Angel?” Crowley implored, eyebrows raised, he set the book face down on the coffee table, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He noticed, then, that the notebook was closed. He looked from it, clutched in Aziraphale’s hands-and never before had Crowley seen the knuckles on his angel’s hands look quite so white, to Aziraphale’s face. His face looked drawn, not tired, just strained. A vein in his temple was fluttering just a bit as he turned to look at Crowley.

“It’s just that, well, my dear, I’m trying to concentrate, here.” He said, raising a hand to his forehead, grimacing slightly.

“What are you doing, angel?” Crowley asked, innocently.

“Well, I’ve got a meeting with a potential venue, a meeting with a florist, two meetings with bakers, all scheduled for the same day, and truth be told I’m trying to figure out how on earth anyone is successful at this, and I’m frankly quite exhausted at looking at the same centerpieces time and time again, and if I have to read another op ed on the benefits of calligraphy versus typeface I may actually self-immolate.” He paused for a breath. “So, my love, it may be a little easier if I had a little more quiet.” Crowley looked at him, eyes wide. Nodded, and stood up, crossing the room to kiss Aziraphale gently, right on the top of his head, before leaving the room entirely. Aziraphale felt a little twinge of guilt, but let it go, refocusing his efforts on the wedding.

Crowley, on the other hand, set to work. Aziraphale wouldn’t be cross with him, they’d argued in the past, little spats, but Aziraphale was never actually cross with something he did innocuously. He must be very very stressed. A headache, certainly, hence the hand to the forehead and a grimace. Crowley rummaged through the medicine cabinet, locating the ibuprofen and grabbing a few from the bottle. He grabbed a glass of water, and put the kettle on. He snuck back into the living room, set the ibuprofen and the water down at the end table next to Aziraphale, who was once again engrossed in the planning. Aziraphale saw it, and glanced up, but Crowley just winked and turned tail again. 

He went upstairs to their bathroom, and ran the tub. He broke into his own stash of bath bombs, choosing a lavender scented one with the most lovely light purple color. He dropped it in, and hurried back down the stairs to hear the kettle beginning to whistle. He brewed the chamomile, extra honey, the way his angel liked it, and took it into the living room again. Aziraphale was making a note in the book, and Crowley set the tea down where the pills had been, before gently taking the notebook and pen out of Aziraphale’s hand. He was met with little resistance, just a little grunt, as he set them on the coffee table. Crowley knelt, between Aziraphale’s knees, and rubbed his hands, gripping Aziraphale’s thighs. 

“C’mon, Zira.” He said, soothingly. “A bath for you, now.” He gave a final squeeze, and stood, pulling Aziraphale up with him. “Come on, now.” He let the dumbfounded man grab his tea, and led him up the stairs. 

He undressed Aziraphale, and eased him into the bath. He heard a tell tale sigh, and Crowley grinned to himself, turning to light some candles, and turning off the bathroom light. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Aziraphale’s voice.

“Wait-” He requested, and Crowley turned. Aziraphale, lit with candles, was really something to behold. And so Crowley beheld him, admiring the way his fiance’s eyes glinted in the flickering light. “Stay with me?” Crowley grinned.

“Course.” Crowley sat next to the tub, grinning at his fiance. They were silent for a moment, then Crowley couldn’t contain himself. “What’s got you so worked up, angel?” Aziraphale sighed, head tilting back a bit. Crowley reached out, cupping his head and bringing it gently to the wall before Aziraphale smacked himself. 

“This is just. It’s a lot of work, Anthony.” Crowley hummed in sympathy.

“Cancel the appointments, then.” He said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Aziraphale opened his eyes, looking at him. 

“What?”

“Cancel the appointments.” Crowley repeated.

“But we need a venue, and floral arrangements, and a cake.” Aziraphale retorted.

“I can make a cake, angel. And who gives a damn where we get married?” Crowley pointed out. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“But…” Crowley trailed his fingertips along Aziraphale’s arm, inviting him to continue. “But what will people think?”

“Ahh.” Crowley breathed, realizing. “So that’s what this is about.” He moved his hand to Aziraphale’s head, and rubbed at his temple a bit. “Angel, who do we have to impress?” He whispered it, now, soft and low. “Anyone we have there will be jealous of what we’ve got anyway.” A weak joke, but Aziraphale’s lips quirked up at the sides. “There’s no rule, no code saying we’ve got to make an impression.” Aziraphale sighed. “If you want a big, elaborate wedding, far be it from me to stop you, angel. But I just want to be married to you. Just want to celebrate with you. Just want you, angel.” Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and he turned to face Crowley, searching his fiance’s eyes.

“Are you certain?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I’m sure about you. Whatever you need, angel.” Aziraphale kissed him soundly.

They tumbled into bed that night, and Aziraphale slept better than he had in weeks. Aziraphale called the next day, cancelling his appointments while Crowley grinned at him, totally satisfied. The notebook lay, forgotten, on the coffee table for quite some time.


End file.
